Agnė Žagrakalytė (b. 1979) is the author of three books of poetry and two books of prose. She has a truly unique poetic voice that is easy to recognize. One of the most important topics of Žagrakalytė's poetry is womanhood, in all of its various forms and transformations. Her texts often play with social and cultural stereotypes. This is alongside other significant themes in her work, like relationships between men and women, living abroad (the poet has been living in Brussels for several years), and her relationship with her homeland. Žagrakalytė's poetry is a creative force of nature filled with details and colloquial language. Her playfulness, lightness and eroticism set her apart in the broader field of Lithuanian poetry. The heroine of her poems is audacious, unpredictable, open, ironic – and very alive.

Agnė Žagrakalytė

Poems from the collection “Štai:”

Two weeks of festivals, basta, basta, done:

dobrdan, dobrdan belo kavo belo vinobella ljubljana after two weeks in loveljanaafter polyglot poemsafter gormless languagesit’s so quiet, you can hear a mouse shiver under a hedgeyowls yearning the for the Bruxelles-ma-belles sirensthe neighbor’s mournful pipes echo through the wall, midnight trains rustling, a calmRamadan autumn:

I speak in clichésthere are clichés as beautiful as red shoes:I’ve been wearing red slippers for two loveljana weeks, in this photo I’m limping around Ljubljana, lost for the sixteenth time:the city leads me in circles in the rain through courtyards, the red slippers blackened with blood at the seams, I’m sorry, I say, - I can’t walk anymore, I am – I’ve forgotten the word – that woman with a tail who lives in the sea, (not an otter – a rusalka[1], sirene – here’s this legless word from my brainless speech),

I climb over the fence as gracefully as I can, inferring where the video cameras are.

Imberlach

So now I’m trying to becomea very clever old womanmixing marmalade:grated carrots, three drops of the blood of impatience, a kilogramof the sweetness of cane:I’m trying to become her in advance, I want to be adept:yesterday’sjar of carrots and sugar cane darkened from the desire to beboil immediately andstir wellon the flame:add nuts, ginger, zest an orange , don’t fear the banality of rose petals, white peppercorns –sothis looks like imberlach to meperpetually the exam of that other Lithuania, where, like in a fantastical story, everyone gets along well and shares sorceries, wishing you a nourishing Christmas,Agne

Different craftsman, same caliber (workbook of sisterhood)

What are you afraid of, I say:there is nothing here to fear at all, you justdive into the vortex, - and I say the same to you: diveinto the vortex, in the vortex like in a sleeve sewn closedyou’ll find the poetry section:a wardrobe of dorm-like poetry:suits of workaday souls, sweat suits of leisurely souls and gray raincoats of penitence. There will be boyish tomahawks, a pile ofbloody scalps, shelves full of toy models, the curled edgesof youthful manuscriptssailboats, soft from dust as if soaring, red-colored photographs, condom wrappers scattered behindpoetry books, six deodorants: roll-on, stick, gelold, without a cap, and a new one.

you’re not reading a poem, it’s just howI journalistically transmit that whichthe gentle turbines of the dryerchurn out from my memory.

An aging man by the window

A young woman’s back plunges into darkness:a woman is a sickle, she pierces the swath of darkness:an open door, balcony railing and her whitebackside. An outdoor lantern swaysgently dreamily, and the wind scatters the ashes.

While you smoke, I’ll pay the taxes:while you’re still intoxicated, while the bills still seemsimple and deserved.

We are strangers to one another and nothingwill come of it, but while my palmsare slippery with sweat, while the blades of the breezedull my stale heart, whilemy heart still murmurs delicately like a thin-walled goblet.

How can you tussle with numbers whensuch a perfect assshines, draws like a breeze on the balcony – a supple star buttocks, like the moon, beautiful like this poem,which is about me, always trying to ringmy over-rattled heart, but

I am a genius, which is whysuch things don’t bother me, cannotbother me.

“The tail does not betray emotions”(encyclopedia of foxes)

shots beyond the park’s fence:hunting shotsin a royal park, tantamountto the breathing of fans:it’s the evening breeze or your sweet perspiration:who crusheshandfuls of exploding lilies of the valleyagainst my temples

1. A rusalka is a water nymph, a female spirit in Slavic mythology and folklore.